


Camera Obscura

by rubberbutton



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: M/M, Season 1, Telepathic Non-Con, Telepathic Sex, Telepathy, Will Finds Out, normal amounts of murder, telepathy au, you know - the usual Hannibal shenanigans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-18
Updated: 2015-12-18
Packaged: 2018-05-07 11:03:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5454305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rubberbutton/pseuds/rubberbutton
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>S1 AU. Will is a powerful telepath working with the BAU. Hannibal has always been able to shield his darker thoughts from Will, but when he is drugged and his control slips, Will sees through the veil.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Camera Obscura

**Author's Note:**

> So much love and thanks to [reserve](http://archiveofourown.org/users/reserve/pseuds/reserve) for her patience and keen eye and general cheerleading and letting me talk her ear off.

Will and Hannibal sit in Hannibal's parked car. The rain falls in steady a shower, the fat droplets obscuring the windshields. Will likes the isolated feeling it gives him. They are parked outside of a medical supply warehouse down in the river bottoms. Jack and his SWAT team are raiding the building's interior. They've been in there too long already. Will's fingers drum nervously on the armrest. 

"Are you all right?" Hannibal asks. He has kept a close eye on Will the entire ride out here. He's psy-null, but he always seems to know how Will is feeling. 

Will shifts in his seat, shrugging. "People call it reading, like a person is a book you can open and close. Put back on the shelf. But that's not how it works. Doesn't matter how careful I am, there's no way to force myself into someone else's mind without them seeing bits of me as well. It's always ... intimate. I leave pieces of myself in every murderer and rapist I touch. And they leave pieces in me." He taps two fingers against his temple. "I feel contaminated." 

"You don't have to do it," Hannibal says. "The FBI has other telepaths."

"Not like me, they don't." Will huffs a sigh to try and purge some of his anxiety. "She's been mixing up shipments, and it could mean hundreds of lives if we don't figure out which ones and fast. I have to do this. This could --"

"Will." Hannibal points. 

A small figure has emerged on the roof of the warehouse, the white lab coat a beacon against the gray sky. It's Anita Goins, running along the roof to a rusty fire escape. Before Will can move, Hannibal is out of the car and Will follows on his heels, the wet gravel crunching underfoot. It's maybe three hundred yards to the building, she's already made the final drop to the ground, disappearing around the far corner of the building. 

Hannibal clears it first, and Will comes around a heartbeat later, nearly running straight into Hannibal. With horror, Will realizes that Anita had stopped short, hiding herself behind the corner of the building, and has ambushed Hannibal. She has a syringe buried in his neck, her thumb already pressing down the plunger. Hannibal bodychecks her into the brick and yanks the needle from his neck before staggering and going to his knees. 

For a wild instant Will is confused; he should have felt her – but he's still got his shields up. He drops them and is immediately struck by the scent of her madness which hangs around her like flies about a corpse. It makes him gag. He reaches for her both physically and psychically, trying to grab her. Touch always makes for a stronger connection, but he can take her down with brute mental force if need be. 

She evades his grip and lashes out; Will sees the scalpel in her hand too late. She buries it in the meat of his thigh, a few inches below his hip bone. He grunts, losing his balance, but the attack has brought her in range and he grabs her wrist. Then he shatters her mind: a brute force attack that overrides her own neural impulses, short-circuiting them like an electrical storm. She is instantly unconscious. He lets her fall to the ground, crumpling into a heap. He can still feel the chatter of her rabid thoughts at the back of his brain.

"Hannibal!" Will limps to Hannibal's side, where he lays sprawled, his hair plastered to his face from rain. Will takes Hannibal's chin in his hands. His pupils have contracted to pinpricks, and he is shivering violently. "What did she give you?" 

"Not … entirely sure." Hannibal's voice has an unfocused, dreamy quality. "Something psychotropic." 

"Shit." Will fumbles his cellphone out of his pocket, debates whether to call Jack or 911. 911 wins out. He's giving the operator the address, when it hits him. The unmistakable feel of another psy-presence. 

He turns, prepared to knock Anita out again, but she lies still and prone, deeply unconscious. His attention turns to Hannibal, who is staring up at the sky and blinking slowly. The presence of psy-users is stronger than psy-nulls. There's a quality Will has never been able to articulate – like psy-users are the same song in a different key. He's spent hundreds of hours in Hannibal's presence, and he’s never picked up on it. 

It doesn't make sense. 

He reaches out, gently, slowly, taking all the care he didn't with Anita, and brushes up against Hannibal's mind. There's the slightest resistance, like a mind which is used to maintaining a shield, used to disguising itself. 

"No," Hannibal whispers, and presses the palm of his hand to his temple, as if he could keep Will out. "Will. Stop."

It's too late, though. Hannibal's consciousness washes over Will. It is sweet and heady and familiar, a scarlet and black ribbon which tugs Will along. The dark scent of oleander winds through it, and Will can't look away.  
Blood. Pain. Fear. Death.

Will cries aloud as realization tears through his brain like a bullet. He takes Hannibal's head in his hands – tucking his thumbs behind the ears and lacing his fingers around the back of the skull – and presses his forehead to Hannibal's. The Dell-Cander position to maximize access to a subject's mind. He closes his eyes.

Hannibal's thoughts are muddied and made kaleidoscopic by the drug; it's why he finally lost control of his shields. He's not a very strong psy user – his abilities are paltry in comparison with Will's – but he must have excellent control. Even Will's not sure if he could maintain that kind of façade for so long. 

He can hear the 911 dispatcher's voice distant and tinny through his cell phone, asking if he's still on the line, but he ignores it. He probes the depths of Hannibal's memory, gorge rising with each image. It's not just visual; he can smell the blood and viscera, the sharp and earthy scent of rosemary and thyme that goes into the sausage. He can feel Hannibal's rage and pleasure as if it the emotions were his own. 

_"You're the Chesapeake Ripper."_ He whispers it directly into Hannibal's mind. 

Pride and amusement bubble up through Hannibal's limbic system. _"Yes. And you never knew."_

_"Clever,"_ Will agrees. 

Will ruthlessly sorts through Hannibal's mind, cataloging and studying each new piece of information. The murders, the safe houses, the lies and half-truths.

Almost everyone has a gravitational center around which the rest of their thoughts, feelings and beliefs rotate — that center is usually a person or a belief in a high power. As Will is drawn deeper into the recesses of Hannibal's mind, it becomes clear exactly who has become Hannibal's gravitation center.

 _"You are."_ The thought rustles past Will like a warm wind. Hannibal has kept a collection of every memory he has ever made with Will, carefully curated and preserved. And not just memories, but fantasies as well. Will shies away from them as a lick of arousal runs through Hannibal.

"What will you do now that you've caught me?"

It takes Will a second to realize Hannibal has said the words aloud. They are still forehead to forehead, as if in prelude to a kiss. Hannibal's lips quirk upward; he can still hear Will's thoughts.

"How could you lie to me?" Will grits out, his vision is wet and blurred. _"I trusted you!_ And his grief and anger rock him like a shockwave.

 _"I was going to tell you."_ His hands are on Will's forearms, just steadying himself; he makes no effort to pull away. He switches to verbal communication. "But it was hardly something I could drop into casual conversation. Had to work up to you, you see." His voice isn't quite slurred, but there's a softness which indicates he's impaired. "I thought you might come to it on your own."

_"And now I have."_

Hannibal agrees wordlessly, a swell of pleasure washing over Will. It occurs Will that euphoria may be a side effect of the drug. He can feel Hannibal's mind slipping into unconsciousness, teetering on the brink of inky blackness. It threatens to pull Will along with him.

Hannibal's mind reaches out to Will's own, bringing a crimson warmth that simultaneously entices and repels. _"Follow me down, clever boy."_ And then he's unconscious.

Will feels a hand on his shoulder. Jack has found them. He's asking questions, but Will is beyond them. Alone in his own head now. He raises his shields, pulls them tightly around himself, and still he can hear the buzz of the SWAT agents around him like a generator’s hum.. He feels faint, from the discovery or from the loss of blood, he doesn't know. He feels like he is watching the paramedics bandage his leg, watching himself wave away the offer of a morphine shot, and watching them be loaded into an ambulance from a great distance. 

He rides on a gurney staring up at the ceiling of the ambulance. Refusing to look over at Hannibal, but aware of his presence as if he were a flashing neon sign. With Hannibal's shields down, Will can reach out to brush against his mind and he can't seem to keep himself from doing it, keeps poking at Hannibal like a sore tooth. 

Will can feel the paramedics' minds as well, both busy with monitoring heart-rates and the city traffic. They're both psy-null; they don't notice as he slips into the backs of their minds — he doesn't intend to interfere, just to monitor. But then some part of his unconscious self makes a decision, and he takes control. The driver turns off the GPS tracking and the radio and takes an exit ramp which heads away from the hospital and out of the city. The paramedic sitting with them in the back goes slack in her seat, eyes unfocused and unseeing.

Just outside of the city, Will directs the driver to pull off at a rest stop. The ambulance is too conspicuous. He finds a lone driver with a minivan and takes over his mind as well and soon the paramedics load Hannibal into the back of the van. The tableau would be memorable, but Will projects just enough that none of the other travelers notice the commotion. With a still unconscious Hannibal stretched out in the back, Will guiltily reaches into the minds of the medics and minivan-owner, carefully wiping away any memory of his face and what's happened. They climb into the back of the ambulance and lie down. He has a few hours before they will wake up again.

Hannibal has a safe house near Chester Gap, Virginia, of all places. It's an old farm house off a dirt road, shadowed by oak and pine forest. Hannibal is beginning to rouse when they get there, though Will can still feel the intoxicant in his system. The paramedics had removed his tie, and the trip has left him untucked and rumbled. He pushes himself cautiously upright.

He is curious but not particularly alarmed as he realizes where he is. "This is my least favorite," he says, as Will slides open the minivan door for him. "It is far more … rustic than, than I would like." He smoothes his hair, pushing it away from his forehead, the motion is exaggerated and poorly coordinated. "There are far better options."

"I know. I've seen them." Will grasps his elbow and half-guides, half-pulls Hannibal from the van. "This one was the closest. Your comfort was not my first consideration."

Hannibal makes a dismayed noise. Will can feel him trying to enter his mind, peer into his thoughts and read his intentions. Will rebuffs him, easily able to shove Hannibal away while maintaining access to Hannibal's own thoughts. Hannibal is considering, simultaneously: potential escape paths; how Will's injury will slow him down and how easy it would be to run him down and do … things to him; the people he's killed at this house; that he wants a shower and a glass of sauvignon blanc; and that he is acutely aware of the scent of Will's aftershave and damp shirt.

Fatigued from the exertion of controlling so many people in one day, Will is starting to get a headache. His leg really hurts. He's bled through the bandage. Will grips the banister up the front steps of the house onto the covered porch and he can feel Hannibal evaluating the weakness with a keen eye.

Hannibal produces a key from under a loose porch plank and lets them inside. There is knife in the drawer of the side table just inside the entryway. Hannibal considers it a split second before distracting himself with the state of the carpet — practiced distraction is an uncertain technique to keep from being read, and Will has no problem detecting it.

Will violently seizes Hannibal's mind, sinking claws into it and taking over so that Hannibal is suddenly a prisoner in his own mind.

 _"I have been gentle so far, Hannibal"_ Will says. _"But I don't have to be."_ Of Will's volition, Hannibal removes the knife from the drawer and sets it at his own throat. The blade digs in just a little a a trickle of blood seeps down the column of his throat, staining the collar of his shirt.

Amusement. _"You've taken the tiger by the tail, Will. You cannot hold him forever. What do you think will happen when your grip fails?"_

Will holds out his hand, and Hannibal gently sets the handle of the knife into his palm. _"I'm curious about that myself."_

\---

Through Hannibal's memory, Will already knows the house: its layout, its strengths and weaknesses. A particular strength, for someone of Hannibal's proclivities, is the basement. It's large, built out out of solid limestone foundation, windowless. Concrete has been poured over the dirt floor, and a half bath has been partially finished — toilet and sink in the corner, enclosed with framing, but no drywall has been hung. The door at the top of the steps is re-enforced steel with a deadbolt, set so that someone can be locked in the basement, rather than out of it. There is a long row of stainless steel workbenches running along the wall and a mattress in the corner, an army surplus blanket neatly folded on top of it.

Will scours Hannibal's mind, has him remove everything which might be used as a weapon — mostly surgical equipment. Will shudders at the memories attached to each cruel implement. Hannibal is only too happy to think of each murder in detail, so they play out like a movie projected in on the screen, only Will can feel the savage joy took in those deaths as if it were his own.

"Those deaths call to your blood, as surely as they to mine," he says, stopping from his work. He reaches to touch Will, rest a hand against his cheek, but Will stops him, and his hand freezes in mid-air. "It may gall you to admit it, even to yourself, but we are far more alike than we are different."

"That's your theory, not mine."

Hannibal's hand drops back to his side, but he smiles slightly. "It's a theory I mean to test."

When the basement has been cleared to Will's satisfaction, he locks Hannibal in and hobbles upstairs to the master bedroom. It's musty but made-up with sheets on the bed. He collapses onto the mattress and falls into a deep sleep.

\---

It's still dark when Will wakes, and it takes him a long time to realize where he is. The panic hardly abates as he places his surroundings, remembers what has happened. It's just before five a.m. Two floors below him, he can feel Hannibal, alert and curious. Will shuts him out.

He strips out his clothes, gingerly peeling the cloth away from his injured leg. He takes his shower, leaning against the cool tile and watches as pinked water runs down the drain. He sits on the toilet and bandages his leg with first aid supplies he scavenged from the closet. The wound isn't very long, but it is deep. He does his best to clean it out; the bleeding had started again in the shower. He applies a generous amount of gauze and bandages it tightly. It will have to do.

He finds clothes, actually does manage to find a plain black t-shirt and pair of gray slacks amongst Hannibal's things, which are an acceptable fit. It's not perfect, but he's grateful he isn't going to have to wear a three-piece suit.

He goes downstairs and finds the coffee beans and a grinder, boils water for the french press. The house is built into the side of the hill and when he goes out on the back porch, he has a breathtaking view of the valley. The sun is starting to rise, gilding the treetops in gold. He sips his coffee and watches it, trying not to think. Keeping Hannibal locked in the basement is not a viable long-term solution.

He'll call the FBI, but he needs some time. He worked side-by-side with one of the most notorious serial killers of the last fifty years and failed to notice. He has to atone for that failure. Even if Hannibal isn't a particularly strong telepath, he's a skilled one — as skilled as Will is. He will prove a challenge to even the FBI's most skilled telepathic interrogators. Handing them a list of names, dates, details, when he turns Hannibal in is the least he can do to make up for his shame, his abject failure. They're not going to let him out in the field after this. He'll be stuck in the tele-interrogation building, spending his days in the petty and poisonous minds of murderers and rapists, and testifying in court.

He finishes his coffee, continuing to ignore the occasional inquiry Hannibal makes. He can't use any of his credit cards, but luckily, Hannibal has several thousand dollars worth of cash in a safe. Will punches the numbers in and takes out a couple hundred. There are no groceries in the house, other than a few dry goods, and he doesn't know how long they'll be here. Without the benefit of the psychotropic drugs, it may take Will awhile to break into Hannibal's mind.

He is passed by a cop car on the highway as he drives into town, and is acutely aware that he's driving a stolen car. There must be an APB out on him by now. But the cop doesn't even look over at him.

He shuffles zombie-like through the store without much of a plan, picking up some staples: frozen pizza, breakfast cereal, Hot Pockets. It's a discount chain, and Will alternates between being worried about the contempt that Hannibal will have for the wilted iceberg lettuce and being glad for an opportunity to spite him.

\---

Hannibal is sitting on the mattress, his back against the wall, when Will unlocks the door.

"Good morning, Will."

"Good morning, Dr. Lecter. I hope you weren't too uncomfortable down here." Will extends little feelers, wrapping around the edges of Hannibal's mind, ready to tighten the noose if necessary, but Hannibal is docile under his touch.

"Not at all. I slept very well." Hannibal rises gracefully, and stretches a little.

"Would you like some breakfast?"

"That would be lovely. I'm famished."

Will retreats to the kitchen, leaving the door open behind him. Hannibal follows and takes a moment to survey the groceries Will has brought home.

"Not up to your standards," Will says.

"Very few things are. It's something of a curse, really. I know you did the best you could, and I appreciate your efforts."

Will had meant to pour himself a bowl of cereal, but Hannibal is already pulling out a cutting board and frying pan. So instead, Will pours himself another cup of coffee and takes a seat at the kitchen table, watching Hannibal work. Hannibal grasps a knife from the block, with the slightest glance Will's direction, and begins dicing an onion.

"Are you feeling any residual effects from the drug?" Will asks.

Hannibal cracks eggs into a silver mixing bowl and vigorously whisks them. "I am perhaps a little fatigued, but the wooziness has passed entirely, and I feel like my usual self."

"Any guesses what she gave you?"

"I believe it was a mixture. Clonazepam or another benzodiazepine, almost certainly. Phenobarbital, maybe. Probably a depressant or narcotic, as well. It's lucky I didn't get the full dose. It likely would have proved fatal." Hannibal pours the egg mixture into the oiled frying pan. "How is your leg?"

"Fine," Will says and shrugs. "I've had worse."

"You should let me look at it nonetheless. Puncture wounds can be tricky."

"I'll take my chances," Will says wryly.

"As you prefer," Hannibal says with a slight shrug. He folds filling into the omelette, pressing down on it with the spatula.

Anxiety and the concentration needed to guard against Hannibal has stolen Will's appetite, and he takes a few unenthused bites.

"Is it not to your liking?" Hannibal asks, watching him with a keen eye.

"No, it's very good. You are, as always, an excellent cook. I'm just not very hungry."

"You shouldn't rely on your body to cue your appetite. You've been working very hard the past twenty-four hours. It must be exhausting, and you shouldn't let it sap your strength. You will need it." Hannibal says this with warm solicitude.

"Thank you for your concern," Will replies, and takes a few more bites, before clearing their dishes.

"I suppose I'm allowed to shower and change?" Hannibal inquires.

"Of course," Will says.

"And then what do you mean to do with me? I do wonder why I am not yet in FBI custody."

"You will be," Will replies evenly. "But there are some questions I need to ask you first, and I will not get the chance to ask them once the FBI has you."

"I see. I look forward to them, then."

\---

Hannibal disappears into the bathroom and reappears freshly showered and shaved, wearing a white button-down and gray trousers.

Will is waiting for him in the sitting room at the front of the house. The room is formally decorated with a horsehair sofa and two arm-chairs which Will has pulled up to face each other. Will takes a seat in one and indicates Hannibal should take the other.

Hannibal does so, and Will takes a deep breath, studying his features which are at once familiar and alien. Hannibal meets his gaze, unconcerned and perhaps a little curious. It's Will who has to look away.

"I apologize for the intrusion," he says.

Hannibal shrugs slightly. "I understand, Will." He leans forward to give Will access, and Will takes his head in his hands. His fingers slips through the silky hair at the back of Hannibal's skull. The small intimacy is enough to heat Will's face, and he keeps his gaze cast down. He's taken this position with hundreds of suspects — at crime scenes and in the sterility of the lab, but it has never made him feel as vulnerable as he does now.

He takes a moment to center himself, calm his own mind before entering the mind of another. He braces himself as best he can for the carnage he knows he will find in Hannibal's brain. He takes a deep breath and reaches out his consciousness, extends past the boundary where his mind ends and Hannibal's begins.

He meets no resistance; Hannibal has thrown open the gates, practically rolled out the red carpet. It is hard to describe, but every person's brain has a map and a sense of its own self. The parts of the brain a person accesses most frequently are at the forefront and the more distant the memory the farther below it is in the brain. Beyond that, even, are memories forgotten or memories too painful to risk tripping over and which have been buried.

 _"Who was the first person you killed?"_ Will asks.

_"Wrong question. The question you should be asking is who is the first person that died."_

Before Will can ask, Hannibal summons a memory, and Will can watch it play out behind his eyes like it is his own. It has a dilute and hazy quality, one of Hannibal's oldest memories. A small child sits in a garden, bathed in the bright sunshine of late spring. She is picking violets from the long grass. Her blonde hair curls in baby-fine wisps around her ears. She looks up at him and smiles and she raises her chubby arms to be picked up.

She babbles with an to him as he scoops her up and braces her against his hip. The language is foreign to Will, but he understands. "Look, brother, look! Violets!" She hands one of the purple flowers to him, her smile revealing deep dimples.

He is enchanted.

The memory fades and is replaced by another.

The same girl, several years later. She has grown tall for her age, gangly and coltish, maybe eight years old, her hair plaited down her back, tanned from the sun, scabbed at the knees. She's climbing the half-dead crabapple tree, with the confidence that comes from long practice. She smiles down at him, her front teeth are missing. Look at me! He feels a pang of worry; she's climbing too high, trying to impress him.

"Come down from there!" he calls, already starting after her, the bark rough under his hands. "Those branches can't hold your weight." She presses on heedless, too brave for her own good. He's gaining on her, but she's a quick little monkey and evades his grasp. He hears the crack of the dead branch before he sees her fall. His heart stops in his chest as time slows to a crawl. He reaches for her, his fingers closing on a wrist as she slips by him. Her weight nearly jerks his arm out of his socket, but his grip holds. She regains her footing, but he refuses to let her go, and they make their way back to the ground like that, as a pair. She's shaking and crying now that her feet are back on the ground. He gathers her up in his arms, and she allows herself to be held like a baby, her face buried in his shoulder.

The memory shifts again.

Same girl, now on the cusp of adolescence. She's watching out the window, her brow furrowed and worried. Fear washes over him and the sense of dread settles in the pit of his stomach. She looks at him and he tries to smile at her. Her mind brushes against his, seeking reassurance. He tries to project confidence he doesn’t feel. 

_"We'll slip out the back. They'll be gone soon enough."_ He takes her hand and pulls her along, and she winces and tells him his hand is holding too tight. He makes an effort to be gentler, not to telegraph his terror through his grip. They're stumbling down the servants' stairs, making their way around the back of the house. The back gate is within reach. Once they reach the cover of the woods, he can hide them.

They dash. He is running as fast as he can, pulling her along after him. The earth before his feet explodes into a row of puffs. Machine gun fire. He grabs her, presses her up against the scant protection of the chicken coop, covers her with his body.

They are taken. Separated. He is locked root cellar. He can hear her screams. Her wordless fear reverberates through him. He batters himself against the door, digs until his his nails are bloodied and shredded. His breath comes in short rapid gasps, and his heart races for the whole of his incarceration.

Her consciousness fades, the link between them weakened by distance. 

_”Brother. Help me,”_ is the last thing he hears before the link is severed entirely. 

They let him out some time later — days or weeks later. He begs them to tell him where she is, to let him see her. They laugh in his face. They lead him up to the kitchen. Ladle out stew into a wooden bowl. It's the first real food he's had since they came, and despite himself, he's starving. He tears into it. The meat is tender and a little gamey — venison, maybe. They watch him eat. Fill his bowl when he empties it.

He asks if he can see his sister. They say yes, and he's grateful, more grateful than he's ever been. He says as much, and they're helping him up onto unsteady feet, pushing him along the hallway. She's in the larder, they say. They open the door and push him in. It's dark, his eyes slowly adjust to the dim. He calls her name. He sees a bit of blonde hair peeking out from under a burlap sack and he falls to his knees beside it, pulling the rough fabric back. Her body shifts and her face rolls toward him. Her eyes are open and have gone empty and milky. He knows then that she is dead, but it isn't until he pulls her body towards him, cradles her in his arms, that he sees her limbs are gone and that she's been eviscerated, that he knows they have fed him his own sister.

Will jerks his hands away from Hannibal, pulls out of his mind so fast that it's dizzying. His gorge rises and tries to stand but stumbles and falls to hands and knees on the carpet. He retches, bring up bile onto the thin carpet, heaving long after his stomach is empty. Tears are streaming down his face, blurring his vision. He breathes deeply through his nose and slowly regains control over himself. He settles back on his knees and wipes his mouth on his sleeve. He still feels too shaky to rise.

Hannibal is still seated in the chair watching him impassively. "Did that answer any of your questions?"

Will doesn't trust himself to speak. Hannibal doesn't wait for an answer, but rises and retrieves a roll of paper towels, a can of carpet cleaner and a trash bag. He scrubs the vomit off the carpet and then takes the bag of soiled paper towels out to the kitchen trash. Will pushes himself to his feet and follows.

There's still nothing to say. Hannibal pours him a glass of water and Will rinses his mouth and spits in the sink. It doesn't help, the back of his mouth is still vile. Hannibal has taken up a dish cloth and is folding it into a neat square. Will rests a hand on his arm. Hannibal stills, but doesn't look at him. His face is emotionless, but there is tension written in the set of his shoulders.

Will swallows hard. "I'm sorry."

"For the intrusion or the tragedy?"

"For both."

"In either case, your apology is useless," Hannibal says, lip curling.

"Why show it to me?"

"You would have gotten there eventually in your quest for answers. You'd never have left a tragic backstory alone. You're far too curious. And for all that you think this is about making amends, the true reason you're conducting this interrogation is curiosity. Easier to just give you what you want now."

Will splashes water on his face, rinsing away the salt tears. Hannibal hands him a dish towel to dry with.

"And yet, I can’t help but suspect your true motive is one of manipulation. You knew I would be suitably horrified. Perhaps you seek to humanize yourself in my eyes. Try to move me to pity."

"And are you? Moved to pity?"

"Yes," Will says simply. "But if you sought to mitigate your own monstrousness, you've failed. You were born, not created. Your own suffering was not instrumental to your savage nature."

"We are all savage by nature."

Will's lip quirks upward. "You more than most. You can't really debate me on that point."

"And yet you feel an obligation to map out that savagery personally." It's not a question. "That suggests that you have a particular fascination, even if you don't share my pathology."

"I feel an obligation. You're not a powerful telepath, but you have excellent control."

"I've found that control usually beats power."

"You'll certainly prove a challenge to FBI telepaths. None of them have your control. They'd wear you down eventually, but who knows how long that would take, and they are understaffed anyway."

"And they won't let you perform the interrogation yourself," Hannibal adds. "Being too close to the subject could cloud your judgement."

Will nods. "Oh, I know my judgement is clouded. That's the funny thing — just because you know your thought process has been compromised, doesn't mean you care."

"True," Hannibal allows, with a small smile. "Though I do wonder if you realize who this is supposed to punish: me or you?"

Will shrugs; it's not a question he's particularly interested in entertaining. "Do you mind if we continue?"

"If you feel well enough. You take care with your health, Will. This could takes weeks or even months. You need to make sure you have the stamina."

"Your concern is touching," Will says. "Please, sit."

They resume their positions, this time at the kitchen table rather than the parlor, which still reeks of vomit.

Will is once again the chapel foyer. He's wary, ready for ambush.

Hannibal is at his elbow, watching. "What would you like me to show you? There are a few memories I think would be particularly instructive. If you're really going to show them off to your friends at the Bureau."

"Thank you, but perhaps later. Show me your first victim."

"Oh, of course." Hannibal opens a door that wasn't there before. "Right this way."

Will immediately recognizes the estate where Mischa died. It's the depth of winter now and the snow blankets the landscape. It is stained red a row of corpses is strung up from a large pine. Mischa's killers, Will notes in grim satisfaction.

He's butchering them as they butchered her, save for one locked in the dungeon.

"All right. Who was next?" Will asks.

The scene shifts.

\---

Will catalogues Hannibal's murders. They are staggering in both number and savagery and, Will thinks, artistry. Will watches as Hannibal matures from the unthinking rage of youth to a practiced and elegant killer. Each memory becomes Will's own, like copying files from a hard drive, and the emotions bleed into Will's, until there no filter remains. . 

He works his way chronologically through Hannibal's brain. Their days fall into routine. Memory-work, dinner prep and a pre-dinner cocktail, then a meal of magret du canard or steak du poivre. It is almost civilized. 

The dinner plates have been cleared and they're lingering over the bottle of wine. 

"When did your power manifest?" Hannibal asks. 

Will remains silent; he keeps his own shields raised. Hannibal, however, has made no effort to shield his own mind since Will’s initial discovery. Almost as though he is reveling in sharing the dark workings of his mind. 

"You've spent so much time in my head, Will. Hardly seems fair that you won't even answer a benign question."

"I was a late bloomer. I had just turned sixteen."

"That's common for more powerful telepaths. Marie Chennault's power didn't come until she was twenty. I myself was twelve. But then, I guess you know that." Hannibal takes a sip of wine. "It must have been a jarring transition."

"Indeed." Will swirls his wine around the glass. "I had accepted that I was psy-null. You know, I was even disappointed. I thought psy ability would make me _special._ " He gives a humorless smile. "I should have been careful what I wished for. You want to know how cruel teenagers are? Listen to their thoughts and find out what they _really_ think of you."

"You are special, Will. But it isn't your ability that makes you so."

Will shrugs the praise away. "They yanked me out of high school anyway, once I was finally tested. I never even got my diploma."

"The FBI did?"

"DOD, actually. I didn't end up with the FBI until ten years ago."

Hannibal considers this. "Were your assignments voluntary?"

"They were voluntary in that I never tried to say no."

Hannibal's eyes narrow ever so slightly. "I see."

"Just as well I guess. I changed schools a lot, and I was always behind. Definitely didn't have the grades to get into college. So it would have been following my dad as a mechanic or enlisting. This way I never had to get my hands dirty."

"You don't think so?" Hannibal asks.

"Touché." Will looks away. "We cannot speak of the past and we cannot speak of the future. This conversation is a precarious one."

"I have always preferred to live in the present. And I do well enough in precarious situations."

"I suppose we could consider philosophy, but I am ill-equipped to discuss it. Psychology is more my area."

"Are you familiar with Greek myth?"

Will shrugs. "A little."

"I find that it often walks the line between philosophy and psychology, revealing the deeper truths about humanity." Elbows set on the table, Hannibal steeples his fingers together. "Have you heard about the goddess Persephone?"

"I remember that she was seized by Hades and dragged to the Underworld to be his bride. Her mother Demeter, goddess of the harvest, was pretty upset about it — and it's how we got the seasons, if I recall correctly."

Hannibal nods. "That's how most people know the story. A kidnapped girl, raped and held prisoner. But there is more to the myth. Persephone was as feared as goddess of the underworld and as powerful as her husband. She had many titles for few would dare to use her name lest they draw her attention. She ruled as Hades equal — a privilege none of Zeus's conquests ever enjoyed. She started her reign as a victim, but she did not allow herself to remain one. It was by her leave that the earth flourished, and by her will that it faltered and died. She was one of the most beautiful and severe goddesses."

"Which of us is Persephone in this scenario?" Will asks, wryly. "I know you can't resist the symbolism."

Hannibal smiles. "I am not usually so literal. But the myth of Persephone considers the balance of fate and free-will in our lives, and I’ve always found it a particularly compelling question. Where do the things that happen to us end and where do the choices we make in response to them begin?”

Will doesn’t particularly care to take the bait, but Hannibal is perfectly capable of carrying on a conversation by himself. 

“You find yourself in rather an interesting predicament, as she did. She was a captive, powerless, until she chose to accept her true nature.”

“I’m not a captive.” 

“But neither are you free. You could walk out of this house, yet you stay. What holds you, Will Graham?” 

Will keeps his gaze lowered, avoiding Hannibal’s dark eyes. Abruptly, he pushes himself up, his chair scraping across the floor. 

“I’m going to bed.” Will waits. 

“Ah.” Hannibal says and rises gracefully. “And that means I am retiring as well. May I do a bit of cleaning up first?” He nods to the dirty dishes on the table.

“No.”

“All right,” Hannibal say amiably. 

He pushes his chair in and then retreats to the basement. He takes two steps down and turns, glancing up at Will. His hair has fallen down across his forehead. “Good night, Will.”

“Goodnight, Hannibal.”

\---

Will struggles up the stairs to the bedroom. His leg is shaky and weak under his weight. A jolt of pain strikes through him with every step. He strips out of his jeans, dropping them to the floor. The wound isn't healing. Not like it's supposed to. There's a redness around the injury, a hotness to the touch that he knows is bad. He needs a doctor and a bunch of antibiotics.

He doesn't know how to get them. He has no fake ID to see a doctor with, and the FBI will have sent his picture to every hospital and urgent care facility within five hundred miles.

He just has to hold on a little longer. He just need as few more days with Hannibal. He can make it. 

He has too.

\---

It is exceedingly strange when he reaches Hannibal's memory of the first time they met.

Hannibal had not particularly impressed Will upon introduction. There had been a long parade of egghead psychologists in Will's life, each eager to see what studying him could do for their careers — dissecting him with their MRIs and their personality tests. Hannibal had just been another one. In fact, it was hard for Will to pinpoint exactly when he'd stopped being a psychologist, and started being a friend. Started being more than a friend really. Will had had very few friends to judge by, but even he knew that the bond they shared crossed the line.

The human memory is an unsteady thing, colored by emotion and worn thin with time. The blood and agony of birth is forgotten, and the perfect love for a child casts the day in rosy hues. And the fairytale wedding curdled and is cast into shades of gray after the divorce.

Still, Will's own memory of their initial meeting was pedestrian and unremarkable: Jack's office, grey carpet, crime scene photos. He slips into Hannibal's memory, and sees it through his eyes. It is as though the saturation has been turned up, and the colors so bright they bleed around the edges. Will's eyes are a bright cerulean, a clearer and more piercing shade than they have ever been in life. Jack is speaking, his voice a dull mumble in the background, his words inconsequential. Hannibal's entire focus is on Will.

Even within the confines of Hannibal's consciousness, Will feels gutted and impaled, like a butterfly pinned to board. The memory is one of Hannibal's most treasured, a fulcrum upon which the course of his life hinges.

Will shies away and the office recedes into darkness, though he can feel Hannibal calm regard watching and considering. Will reaches out, hunting for the next victim. He finds her quickly.

Cassie Boyle.

There is a strange dissonance as he realizes what he should have known all along, what some small part of him suspected. He is both staggered and deeply unsurprised.

He forces himself to watch. Her fear and pain, the last few brutal moments of her life. Watches as understanding that she is going to die registers on her face and as the life fades from her eyes. It is not a good death.

He looks for Marissa Schurr next. She had tried to fight. Had given Hannibal more trouble than men twice her size, but the end is inevitable.

The surge of Hannibal's bloodlust and satisfaction mingle with Will's horror and guilt in a discordant clash. He pulls out of Hannibal's mind, coming to his feet. He feels hot, light-headed, his hands are shaky. He tugs at the collar of his shirt. Why is it so hot in here? He needs water. He limps to the kitchen, his injured leg throbs, sending a pulse of pain through him with every step.

He pulls a glass from the cabinet and turns on the faucet. The glass slips through his sweaty fingers and shatters against the bottom of the sink.

"Shit." He turns off the water, picks up the largest piece of glass and starts filling it with shards. Blood wells from a cut on his thumb.

"Leave it, Will. You're distraught," Hannibal says.

"It's my fault," he says and his voice sounds distant and fuzzy to his own ears. "Two girls died because of me."

"Indirectly," Hannibal allows. He pulls the white handkerchief from his pocket and presses it to Will's bleeding thumb. "Their deaths were necessary."

"I know the argument you will make," Will says, miserable. "The inevitability of it all. I'm very familiar with your philosophy, each twisted link in the chain of your thoughts. I just don't share it."

"You should sit down, Will." Hannibal puts the palm of his hand to Will's forehead. "You don't look well."

Will catches Hannibal's wrist and pulls his hand away.

"Why are you doing this to me?" Will says plaintively, his grip one Hannibal's wrist is tight enough to be painful, but Hannibal displays no discomfort. "I don't … _understand_ …"

Will sways on his feet. He braces a hand against the counter as the room swims around him. His vision is tunneling, blackness encroaching, and his hearing has gone fuzzy, as though he has cotton in his ears. He is teetering on the brink of unconsciousness, and he slumps against the counter, sinking down to avoid an outright fall.

 _"Hannibal,"_ he thinks and loses consciousness.

\---

There is some period of time which passes. Will is vaguely aware of it, never quite comes to full consciousness, but surfaces enough to know that someone is pouring water down his throat or is sponging his brow or that he is alternately shivering or sweating.

When he finally does come to, he is lying in the upstairs bedroom. Late afternoon sunlight casts shadows across the bed. Even lying flat on his back, Will feels dizzy.

"How are you feeling, Will?"

Hannibal. He has left Hannibal unattended, he could have done anything, hurt anyone. Will sends a frantic feeler out, reaching for Hannibal's mind, trying to read him. He feels nothing. Not quite nothing, the warm presence of Hannibal's psyche is still there, but Will can't seem to press beyond his outermost defenses.

Alarmed, Will tries to push himself up in the bed, but his strength fails him and he immediately feels dizzy and faint. He feels very drunk, and he has to work to keep his eyes focused.

"Don't upset yourself." Hannibal sits on the edge of the bed, and pushes Will back down. "Your fever's broken, but you're still weak."

"I can't feel…" Will presses a hand to his forehead. "What did you do?"

"I dosed you with a similar cocktail to what I was given. Much milder, of course, but it should interfere with your telepathic ability. You won't be able to control me or even breach my shields." He pauses for dramatic effect. "I'm sure you can appreciate the irony."

Will tries to hold his thoughts together, but the slip away like cupping water in his hands. Hannibal has drugged him. When? How?

He must have said it aloud or Hannibal is reading his thoughts, because he says, "I merely took advantage of your fever. You've been running a low-grade fever for days now. You haven't been taking care of yourself. I did warn you. It was only a matter of time before it came back to bite you." He shrugs. "I only had to wait until you were too weak to resist. I already keep a stock of the drugs on hand. They've come in handy more than once."

Will struggles with the sheet covering his legs. He's wearing boxers and an undershirt. He tries to sit up, more slowly this time and with more success. Hannibal puts an arm to his shoulder to steady him.

"How long was I unconscious?"

"The better part of two days. You are still sick, don't push yourself. I told you that puncture wounds could be tricky."

"I have to urinate," Will says, as more parts of his body come back online. The pressure in his bladder is enough to make the pain in his leg dull by comparison. The few feet to the bathroom seem daunting as Everest at the moment.

"Of course." Hannibal stands and takes Will's arm to help him up. Will hesitates, and is tempted to refuse Hannibal's help, but he really has to pee and the victory will be short-lived if he collapses before he makes it.

Hannibal keeps him upright. Will's injured leg can take hardly any weight at all. He keeps a forearm braced against the wall as he relieves him. Hannibal waits, his eyes politely averted.

Will washes his hands and splashes water on his face. His own haggard reflection stares back at him in the mirror. He desperately needs to shave and he has dark circles on his eyes. His skin as a pale, greyish cast. He looks like shit. Makes sense. He feels like shit.

His leg gives out on the trip back to the bed. Hannibal catches him, keeps him from sprawling. He hooks Will's arm around his neck, and literally sweeps him off his feet, depositing him in the bed.

Will turns his face to the wall, his shame is exquisite.

"I'm afraid you will not like it, but your bandage needs to be changed."

Will says nothing, pulls apathy around himself like armor, while Hannibal gathers a fresh bandage and disinfectant. Will allows himself to be shifted as Hannibal cuts through the old bandage with blunt-tipped medical scissors. He probes the wound carefully.

"Good, it's healing. You're lucky you didn't get sepsis," Hannibal chides as he rinses it out with an antiseptic which stings sharply. You should take more care with your health. You spend too much time locked in your own mind and failed to realize the severity of the siege your own body was under." He presses new gauze to the injury and winds it around Will's thigh.

"I am an idiot."

"No. You are many things, but never an idiot. At most, I would say you are occasionally short-sighted."

"Kind of you, Dr. Lecter."

"Hannibal, please. We are long past the point of such formalities."

Will glances to Hannibal's elegant fingers, taping the bandage in place. "I suppose I know you better than anyone ever has."

"And better than anyone ever could. It is a strange thing to be completely known. The people in our lives give us context. They reflect back to us the reality we project. When we live our lives in concealment, that image is warped. I have always found it an incredible burden. You've freed me of that burden, Will."

Fatigue pulls at Will, his eyelids feel heavy and his limbs weak. He lets his eyes drift closed.

"You can sleep, but please drink something first. Dehydration is always a threat."

Hannibal fetches a glass of water, a couple of slices of lemon floating at the rim. Will pushes himself up onto an elbow and Hannibal sets the glass to his lips. It's only as the water pours over his tongue that Will realizes his thirst. He drains the glass and then sinks back and allows sleep to take him.

\---

"It's time for your medicine, Will." Hannibal's voice brings him to wakefulness an uncertain span of time later.

Will quails a little at the thought of the needle and the woozy feeling that would come with it, clouding his mind. He doesn't say anything, though. He knows Hannibal will not reconsider, and he sits up docilely, leaning back against the headboard of the bed as Hannibal rolls up his sleeve and swabs the inside of his elbow. 

Hannibal gives Will's wrist a reassuring squeeze. "Anything that clouds that beautiful mind is a shame, but it's necessary for now. I've adjusted the formula. You should find this less disorienting." He injects Will smoothly, and it hardly even stings. A moment later, Will feels his muscles relax. It reminds him strangely of having his pupils dilated. It has that same sort of sticky, expansive feeling and his body's annoyance at losing control of a function. He closes his eyes, lets his head drop back and feels the room spin around him. 

"That's very good. Thank you," Hannibal says. He has a Band-Aid out and places it carefully over the drop of blood on Will's arm. "Give that a moment and let me know how you feel." Will makes a small noise of agreement without opening his eyes. Hannibal brushes Will's hair off his forehead, and the soft touch feels good, but then his hand slips back to cradle the back of Will's head.

"Please," Will whispers hoarsely. "Please don't do this."

"You did this to me." Hannibal's eyes are bright with unshed tears. "Seems only fair."

"I had to — it was my duty."

"Duty? Your duty was to turn me in to the FBI. You took my mind because you wanted to. I assume you were curious. Just as I am curious."

Will's breath is rapid and uneven. He tries to calm himself, center himself enough to put up his shields, with the medication, they are as uncertain and crumbling as a sandcastle. Hannibal's consciousness breezes past them.

Hannibal is in Will's mind, privy to his every thought and memory.

 _"Why?_ Will says, helpless. _What can you possibly want to know?"_

_"I want to know you, Will. Quite simply, I want to know everything — to know you in your entirety. I want to know the happiest you've ever been. I want to know what the angriest you've ever been is. I want to know the highs and lows and the everyday tedium of your existence."_

_"Tedium is right,"_ Will says vehemently. _"I am completely ordinary. And I know the contempt in which you hold ordinary people. I don't know anything, I'm not clever, I've never traveled anywhere or done anything. Christ, I've never even gone to the opera. The only reason you've mistaken me for being interesting is my telepathy. But that isn't me, that's a fluke of genetics."_

_"No. You are quite possibly the most interesting human being I've ever met, and it has nothing to do with your telepathy. Although, I admit your telepathy may have been what first drew my notice."_

Will feels as he turns his attention away, casting through the vaults of Will's mind like he's panning for gold.

The first memory he settles on:

Linda Rondstadt's _Blue Bayou_ is playing on the transistor radio. His mother is putting on her make-up, compacts and brushes scattered around the sink. Will sits cross-legged on the toilet, his Teddy Ruxpin cradled in his lap. His mother is very pretty, and he likes to watch her. She's wearing a short acid-wash skirt, and one of the ruffled sleeves of her shirt has fallen off her shoulder as she leans in toward the mirror. She brushes silver blue shadow across her eyelids. Her bleached hair is teased and crimped and she smells like vanilla. She's in a good mood, humming along to the radio. 

She turns and looks at him, takes a long sip of her drink. "How do I look, baby?" 

"Beautiful!" he says and she blows him a kiss. He reaches out his arms, and she sweeps him up, Teddy Ruxpin falling to the floor. She sets him on her hip, which he doesn't mind even though he's not a baby anymore, and sways in time to the music, singing in earnest now. She dips and twirls, her hoop earrings brushing his cheek. 

A car outside honks. She startles and then half-sets, half-drops him on the couch and goes to the window, peering through the blinds.

"Shit, he's early." She turns back toward Will, glances at the clock, indecision written on her face. "It'll be fine." She gathers up her purse, stuffing lipstick and keys into it. "Sherry will be here in just a little bit, baby. You'll be all right until then, won't you?" She leans over to give him a kiss on the top of his head. "Be a good boy, okay."

Then she's gone. He watches from the window as she hops into the cab of a pickup, which squeals as it pulls away from the curb. She's laughing and he catches one last glimpse of her blonde hair. When the pickup has disappeared from view, he goes back to the bathroom and picks up Teddy Ruxpin. 

In another three months she'll be gone for good. But Will doesn't remember the actual, for sure, last time he saw her. This is the memory of her his brain has preserved. 

_"Your mother was a beauty,_ " Hannibal says. 

_"Yes. Not too bright though."_ Will gives whatever the mental equivalent of a shrug is. _"I think she really did love me in her own way. She just wasn't capable of much."_

 _"I'm sorry, Will."_

_"Don't be."_

_"How was your relationship with your father?"_

_"Careful, you're starting to sound like a shrink."_

The memory comes without Will's consent. It's night. He's driving from Fort Bragg to Pensacola. He's got dispensation to leave, but he has to be back in thirty-six hours.

His father is dying.

He parks in the hospital lot. A nurse takes him back to his father's room. His father lies in bed, the coverlet tucked around him. A baseball game is on the TV, but the sound is muted. His father isn't even fifty, but he looks eighty, his skin grey and paper thin, eyes sunken and rheumy. 

"Hey, Dad," Will says, and pulls up a chair to sit by his bedside. "How you feeling?"

His dad's face turns toward him, but his eyes fail to focus properly. "Like shit." The answer is clear enough. 

"Is there anything I can get for you?" 

"Yeah, booze. Nurses won't let me have anything."

"I don't think I can do that."

"Then what good are you." 

"Maybe some ice cream or something?"

His dad turns away, reaches out a bony arm and grasps the TV remote. He turns the volume up. 

Eight hours later, he dies with a shuddering gasp. Will signs some paperwork, collects the effects the nurse boxes for him, gets back in his car and drives to the fort. He hasn't even missed a training session. 

_"Yeah, that's all you really need to see of that relationship. He was an asshole."_

_"Family is a strange concept. They seem destined to tear us up. You're family was neglectful and cruel, and you will wear the scars they gave you the rest of your life. My family loved me as you ought to have been loved, but their loss has given me my own set of scars."_

_"We're screwed either way, I guess."_

\---

 

Now the memory shifts to a vacant lot, sandy with patches of stubby grass. A bunch of twelve-year-old boys, sunburned and sweaty, with baseball bats and gloves. Will is one of them, new to town, but the teams are always uneven so they let him play. He's an athletic kid, but a little uncoordinated. He's good enough to not be a liability, always drafted somewhere in the middle of the pack. He likes it that way; it keeps him safely inconspicuous. At least, that his hope, but Tommy Bugajski notices him anyway. A loud, gap-toothed kid with a mean streak, he quickly hones in on Will as a convenient target. As playground bullies go, he's pathetic, and Will's dealt with worst.

Will avoids confrontation where he can, lets it wash over him without protest when he can. Most of the time he doesn't even have lunch money, and as far as he's concerned, the stakes are low.

When Will snaps, it's not even about Tommy. Will's dad has just gotten fired — again — for drinking on the job. Which means they're moving again, just when Will had mostly sorted out his school work. Miss Bell thinks he's making real progress. They'd been here longer than anywhere else, and Will had begun to hope that this time, it would work out.

Tommy just happens to get in the way after school. He's there with a snide remark — nothing even that inflammatory. Will can't even remember the exact words, just the tone and the smug curl of Tommy's lip. And something within him breaks.

He sucker punches Tommy, catching him in the jaw. He makes good contact, and Tommy's head snaps back cracking against the wall behind him. It's not enough, Will want to inflict pain, real pain, and he hits Tom again. Tommy's too surprised or dazed to put up anything more than weak defense. If he makes contact, Will doesn't even feel it. They're on the floor now, Will straddling Tommy's waist, and Will punching him, alternating left and right fists. Tommy isn't trying to fight back anymore, his nose it bloody and he is moaning low, his eyes swollen shut. A group of kids have gathered around them, first whooping and cheering, but now they've fallen silent.

An adult is hauling him off Tommy, lifting him as if in slow motion. Will looks down at Tommy lying splayed on the green tile, a halo of red spreading around his head.

 _"I am not proud of this,"_ Will says directly to Hannibal. _"I don't want to see."_

 _"I thought you didn't share my appetite for violence,"_ Hannibal's voice comes back to him.

_"Perhaps the diversion in our natures is not our aptitude for violence but our reaction to that part of ourselves. I see it as a character flaw to be tamped out. You see it as a virtue."_

_"Incorrect. I see it as neither vice nor virtue. I see it as intrinsic to our identity. Neither of us would be ourselves without it."_

_"I don't want to be this person."_ Will doesn't even mean to think it, but he cannot keep it to himself here. His every thought is laid bare.

 _"It's your guilt that is the vice that needs eradication. You carry your guilt like a millstone."_ Hannibal's voice is reasonable, reassuring, and Will wants to lose himself in it, accept the absolution Hannibal offers. _"What other useless guilt do you carry?"_

And, unbidden, Will remembers.

Westridge South High School. A brick building with all the charm of a low-security prison. The weird broccoli cafeteria smell and florescent lighting. It's where Will meets Sloane McKenzie. Will tries out for the baseball team, makes JV. Sloane is the captain, a sunny good-looking teen with broad shoulders and freckles. He's nice to Will, maybe not particularly bright, but friendly and easygoing. He's not popular, exactly, but everyone likes him. Will likes him a lot, likes him with an intensity. He recognizes it as a crush, but tries not to think about the ramifications, tamps it down as an inconvenience.

But it doesn't go away. He steals glimpses of Sloane in the locker room, takes the long way to his second period English class so he can pass him in the hall, finds ways to be near him during practice. He keeps his gaze off of Sloane, always fixed on some other nearby point, like Sloane is the sun.

When his powers manifest, Will thinks he's gone insane. He'd been feeling jittery and ill-at-ease for weeks, had trouble sleeping, concentrating. He assumes it's hormones or stress, probably both. He's at practice and it's hot, the sun is merciless overhead. The headache that's been plaguing him since yesterday blossoms into the worst migraine he's ever had. It feels like the voice of all of the kids on the field and the coaches are screaming directly in his ear, louder and louder. Will falls to his knees, palms pressed to his ears.

 _"Something's wrong with that kid,_ he thinks. But, no, that doesn't make sense. _"Graham's fainted. Shit, probably the heat. Hope he's all right. This school doesn't need another lawsuit."_

It's Coach Lawson's voice and it is in his head. Fuck.

"Will, are you okay?" A hand is on his shoulder. He can't look up, it's too bright. "Can you get up?" It's Sloane. Will doesn't even care.

"Get him up and take him inside. Make him drink something — this is why I tell you to hydrate!"

Will struggles to his feet, slumping against Sloane's solid form. It's a little better in the dark cool of the locker rooms.

Sloane brings him a paper cup of ice water. Will takes a sip and sets it aside. He feels like his head is reverberating like a gong that has just been struck, but it doesn't fade, it just goes on and on and on.

 _"Will, can you hear me?"_ Sloane says.

"Yes," Will says, face in his hands.

_"I didn't say that out loud."_

Will looks up.

Sloane shrugs. _"Yeah, looks like you're a telepath._

"Shit," Will says.

"My older brother is a telepath. It was pretty rough on him too. You need to protect your mind, like from all the brain waves and stuff."

"Okay. Not sure how to do that."

"Just, like, take deep breaths and focus. I know it feels like you don't have any control, but you do. You can make it go away." Sloane breathes in and out to demonstrate. "You have to imagine a wall surrounding your brain. Focus on the wall. Ignore everything else."

"Okay." Will focuses. He imagines a wall, and feels something coalesce in his brain, a weird mental shifting that is unlike anything he has ever felt before. The din recedes, the noise falling to a level that's manageable. The tension in his shoulder eases.

"Better?" Sloane asks.

"Little bit," Will says. "Thanks."

Sloane smiles. "Good. You'll get better at it with classes. That's what my brother says. Must be weird, huh?"

"You have no idea," Will agrees.

The locker room blurs as the memory shifts, and it's a few months later. That was his last semester at that school; they'd be moving over the summer. He doesn't really have friends, but somehow gets an invite to the bonfire outside of town. An end-of-year thing the popular kids do. He's drunk on stolen whiskey, when Sloane offers him a ride back. And he can so clearly see Sloane's face rimmed in the red glow of the fire. And Will feels the agonizing stab of desire accompanied by the knowledge that he will mostly likely never see Sloane again.

Sloane drives a nice car, bench seat, chrome and leather interior. It smells vaguely of stale cigarette smoke and Sloane's aftershave. Will slumps against the window, watching as the trees slip past. He directs Sloane to the bad part of town, to the rundown apartment building. Sloane turns into the crumbling parking lot and pulls into a spot. Two of the street lamps have burned out, leaving the the street in near total darkness.

"Thanks for the ride," Will says, trying to drag out the seconds, willing time to stop. He can _feel_ Sloane, he's edgy, still keyed up from the party, horny in the way that teenage boys usually are.

"Sure," he says.

Will reaches for Sloane, reaches with his mind's tendrils, caressing Sloane's mind ever so gently. Sloane sighs, sinks back against his seat a little, but shows no other sign he's even aware of Will's presence. Most non-telepaths are oblivious to such interference.

Will sidles a little closer, and Sloane looks over at him. Even in the dark, Will can make out his dreamy look.

"Hey," Will says, and dares touch him, grazing fingertips down the side of Sloane's chin.

"Hey," Sloane says, his breath is coming a little faster as he becomes aroused. Will is aroused too. He squirms in his seat to adjust himself, shifting his erection against the fly of his jeans. Will kisses him, tentatively, waiting for Sloane to shove him away, punch his lights out. Sloane doesn't do that. He's pliant and warm under Will's lips. Will kisses the column of his neck, bring his hand up between Sloane's legs, palming his dick. Will's heart his racing, and sweat prickles along the back of his neck, under his arms. Sloane arches back, pushing into Will's hand.

Will has grown bold with his desire, and he struggles with the zipper, shoves at the cumbersome fabric of pants and boxers. Then he has Sloane's cock in his hand, solid and hot to the touch. Sloane shudders and gives a small moan at the back of his throat. The sound goes through Will like a shock of electricity. The impulse to take it in his mouth is strong, nearly inexorable, and he leans forward and does so. Sloane bucks and grasps at the collar of Will's shirt.

Sloane's climax comes quickly, a few quick strokes and he's spurting in Will's mouth. Will is surprised, and he didn't have a plan what to do it, he doesn't shut his mouth in time and the bitter fluid dribbles down his chin. He swallows, swipes his sleeve against his mouth.

Sloane tugs at the hem of his shirt, and yanking his clothes back into place. "I, uh…" There's an shaky, uncertain note in his voice. "I'm not sure that was a good idea."

"Yeah, no," Will says. "Sorry." He scrambles out of the car, slamming the door shut behind him. He lets himself into the apartment, and just makes it to the bathroom before he throws up.

 _"Christ, have you seen enough?"_ Will interrupts the memory to address Hannibal.

_"Why are you embarrassed?"_

Will tries to clear his mind, to think of nothing but waves of emptiness which will the closes thing to no answer he can do. But the guilt and shame of that night — _He never would have allowed me if I hadn't … been in his mind. I didn't mean to, really I didn't mean to._ — overwhelm him. The same sick feeling in the pit of his stomach and he fights the urge to retch.

_"You ought not be ashamed, Will. You didn't do anything wrong. It's endearing that you're so concerned with his autonomy. He shared your desire, your mode of persuasion was no stronger than a glass of wine and particularly flattering lighting. If he'd had any particular will of his own, he would have resisted. But in his own petty way, he realized that is a far better thing to offer himself up to you. It was far greater luck than he deserved."_

Bitter mirth wells up in Will. _"Excuse me if I don't accept you as a moral authority."_

_"On the contrary, I am familiar with many schools of morality. What you call morality is merely a calcification of cultural dogma, passed on and repeated without thought or examination. Morality is for minds smaller than yours. We are beyond such mean and arbitrary strictures. You carry your useless guilt like an albatross, because they have made you think that it belongs there. Cut yourself free, Will."_

Hannibal pulls back, out of Will's mind and they both open their eyes. Will's vision is blurred, and tears are are tracking down the side of his face. Hannibal sits beside him on the bed. His hands drop out of the Dell-Cander position, sliding down the sides of Will's neck, but he doesn't pull away entirely.

"Please don't look at me," Will says hoarsely around the lump in his throat. He grabs Hannibal's wrists, though he does not try to pull them away from his neck.

"You were meant to be seen," Hannibal says fiercely.

Will takes a shuddering breath. "This is what you wanted. All along." Will pauses, forces himself to meet Hannibal's fathomless gaze. "Your shields are very good. But you must have known that soon or later they would slip and I would see you as you see me. Yet you chose to work with me every day for months."

"I wanted you to see me."

"Why?" Will says, nearly pleading.

"Why is the moth drawn to the flame?"

"Don't be facile."

"Don't be obtuse," Hannibal snaps back, an edge to his voice for the first time. "You already know the answer to these inane questions, yet you continue to fish, trawling the waters for a more convenient answer. One which will corroborate your self-delusion."

"And what delusion is that?"

"That there is no real bond between us. That you are incapable of sharing such affection with a monster. And that, as a monster, I am incapable of bearing you the greatest love you have ever known."

Will laughs bitterly, the tightness in his chest contracting to a single agonizing point.

Hannibal tilts his head slightly. "Let me pose one question of my own. Why, when you discovered my true nature, did you save me?"

"I _didn't_ save you," Will says.

"All right, as you prefer: why didn't you turn me in?"

Will hesitates. "There were too many answers I wanted to dig out of your brain myself. They would never let me in a room with you again — our previous association casts suspicion upon me."

"We both know that you're lying."

"I'm not," Will says, soft and helpless. He closes his eyes, insulating himself from the intensity of Hannibal's gaze, letting his head drop forward.

Hannibal leans in and whispers against Will's temple. "You are." Then directly into Will's mind, the words come. _"Why are you lying, Will? Is the truth so bitter? Why did you take me?"_

_"I don't know."_

_"You do know."_

_"I don't. I don't, I don't, I don't."_

_"You do. Tell me, Will. Tell me."_

_"BECAUSE I WILL NOT LET THEM HAVE YOU."_ The words tear through his, a _cri de cœur_ that rocks him to the marrow of his bones. _"YOU BELONG TO ME."_ He kisses Hannibal then, a hard press of lips.

Hannibal doesn't pull away as Will finally breaks the kiss. He press his face to Will's and Will can hear as Hannibal takes a shuddering breath and can feel Hannibal's happiness.

Eventually, reluctantly, Hannibal lets go. "Thank you, Will." His eyes are bright with unshed tears. He cradles the side of Will's face in his hand. "Now. You need to go and get cleaned up. And I need to start on dinner."

"I'm not hungry."

"Of course you are. Emotional breakthroughs are hungry work."

\---

Hannibal draws Will a bath. The water is very hot and scented with juniper and sandalwood oil. Will sinks into the tub, hissing a the heat of the water against his skin. The tub is huge, centered in the spacious bathroom. There's a skylight in the ceiling above, and he can just see the tops of the trees.

Will dozes in the bath, emerging only when his fingers are well and truly pruned.

Hannibal has laid things out for Will to wear. A dove grey suit with waistcoat and silver cufflinks and wingtip shoes. A little formal for eating in, but Hannibal has always liked things to have a sense of occasion. Blue and white delphiniums and asters are spilling out of a large vase in the centerpiece. The table is elaborately set with cut crystal glasses and porcelain with gold leaf.

"You've really outdone yourself," Will calls. Hannibal is in the kitchen, accompanied by the sound of a great deal of rattling. He emerges, wearing a pristine white apron over his suit. He's holding two glasses of champagne. Will accepts one, and the effervescence washes over his tongue, leaving the aftertaste of citrus and apple. He takes a seat in the chair Hannibal pulls out for him.

"Jarrets d'agneau braisés à la provençale," Hannibal says, setting a plate before Will. "Served with wild rice and asparagus."

"But this isn't lamb," Will says, looking at the "lamb" shank plated on a mound of of the dark rice, a sprig of rosemary nestled alongside it.

"No," Hannibal agrees, taking his seat across from Will. "The recipe will work with a number of meats."

Will picks up his utensils, hesitating a moment before placing the first bite in his mouth. It is tender enough to melt over his tongue, the flavor complex, but somehow homey.

"Delicious. My compliments to the chef."

Hannibal smiles in earnest delight. "I'm so glad you approve. You've lost weight, and I've made it my goal to put some meat on your bones. As they say. And I suppose I wanted to apologize."

"You? Pretty sure that's a first."

Hannibal frowns slightly. "I know it been a difficult time for you. I thought a little pampering might be in order. I am not always cruel."

"Not always, no."

"It's strange for me to find myself seeking forgiveness."

"Most people want to be forgiven because they feel remorse. And remorse is an emotion entirely absent from your repertoire," Will says mildly.

"True. Perhaps I misspoke. It is not your forgiveness I want."

"You want my love," Will says, pausing with each word. "But how can you love me."

Hannibal finishes chewing and swallows. "That isn't really a question."

"Usually, all we have are a person's words and actions and from that evidence we have to deduce their feelings toward us."

Hannibal nods once. "But we're not usual people. We're telepaths."

"I know your mind. You know mine — better than I do, I suspect." Hannibal waits for Will to continue. "So when I say you love me, it isn't because I think it's true, or hope or fear that it's true. It's because I know that it's true." Will pauses and watches Hannibal, feels his interest and anticipation reflected back to him in the undercurrent of psy-energy between them.

"I have learned a great deal about love from you," Will says. "It's an emotion that inspires such banality. Love is patient, love is kind — that's all bullshit."

"What definition would you propose?"

"I don't know. I'm beginning to wonder if it isn't just an idea made up by the greeting card companies."

"Perhaps. Or perhaps is is merely a chemical imbalance in the brain. All our emotions have biological basis."

"We are … meat machines," Will says. "A sum of naturally selected parts. It seems strange that this," he gestures vaguely at his own temple, "is the design Nature would pursue."

Hannibal takes a meditative sip of wine, considering this.

"I don't know what to do with your love," Will admits. "But it seems that despite myself, I cannot give it up."

"And that makes you unsure of yourself."

"Your love has changed me. The truths I knew about myself a few days ago have been proven false. And I haven't found new truths to replace them. I thought I was a good person, but my actions haven't been those of a good person."

"I can think of nothing more tedious than a good person. It's a useless conceit. Do you know what a camera obscura is?" Hannibal asks.

Will struggles to follow the sudden change in conversation. "Yeah, uh it's a precursor to modern photography."

"Yes, it's a device which uses light directed through a pinhole to reflect scenes. Unless corrected with mirrors, the projected image is upside down. Many great artists used it as a drawing aid to help the artist capture linear perspective. You see, it's very easy to us to get caught up in what we think there ought to be and fail to see what actually is."

"And you're my camera obscure? Is that the metaphor?" Will says, dubiously.

Hannibal smiles at that. "You know I can't resist a good metaphor. Through me your truest nature is revealed and by me you see undistorted version of yourself."

"You're asking me to trust you," Will says.

"No, I'm merely pointing out why you already do."

Will opens his mouth to argue the point and, to his surprise, finds that he can't. After a moment he smiles wryly and pushes himself away from the table. The wine has made him sleepy, and he doesn't want to think anymore. He attempts to help clear the dishes, but Hannibal waves him away.

"Go and sit down, Will. It's late, and I can finish cleaning in the morning."

Will shuffles into the living room, and then sinks down into the yielding upholstery of the sofa. He’s left his jacket somewhere, and his shirt has come half-untucked. He toes off his shoes, exposing argyle dress socks. Embers are left smoldering in the fireplace, casting the room in an orange glow. Will can just feel the heat on the side of his face. It is exceedingly pleasant.

The couch is long enough for him to stretch out on. He kicks his shoes off and does so, pulling a tasseled cushion into position under his head. He's drowsing almost immediately. His vaguely aware as Hannibal leans on the back of the sofa, peering down at him. Will feels Hannibal's mind brush against his, not forcing his way in, but seeking an invitation. Hannibal is in as great a state of undress as Will, his jacket gone, his waistcoat unbuttoned and his sleeves rolled up. 

Will shifts forward, making room. Hannibal takes a seat at the foot of the sofa, and Will pats the space he's cleared next to him. Hannibal gracefully lowers himself down, so he's sandwiched between Will and the back of the sofa. It's a wide piece of furniture, upholstered in red velvet, but they are still pressed up against each other. The thrum of Hannibal's mind is as comforting as the heat of his body.

Hannibal's arm comes to rest around Will's waist. Will shifts, rolling into the embrace. Hannibal's hand strokes Will's side, a gentle, lulling caress. Will can do nothing but surrender to it, at it traces up his ribs and sternum, then down over belly and hip. Will sighs a little, and luxuriates in the touch. He has not been touched, not like this, for years.

Hannibal's breath tickles the back of his neck and Will can smell his cologne and cognac. A ripple of agitation roils through Will's stomach, an itch he finally recognizes as desire, and he rolls onto his back, though there is hardly room for it. Hannibal must feel it as he feels it, and Hannibal’s hand hesitates before teasing lower. Will's shirt is half-untucked, and Hannibal's hand finds the gap, fingers slipping underneath so they touch skin. He pulls more of the shirttail from the waistband, and soon Will's belly is exposed, his shirt rucked up to his ribs. The air is cold against his skin, and the heat of Hannibal's hand stands as stark contrast. Hannibal makes lazy circles around Will's navel, touch light.

Will's cock is half-hard, interested in the preceding, but still sleepy and full as the rest of him. Hannibal's reach goes lower, until his fingers trace the outline of Will's cock through the thin wool of his trousers. There is no urgency behind the caress, no real intent, as if his dick is just one more part of Will to touch. The fingers traces the flesh of Will's thighs and return to the naked skin of his stomach. Will is patient, yielding, willing to go where Hannibal leads. He sighs, and turns his face toward Hannibal's. His eyes are closed, but he knows that Hannibal watches him. They have bled into each other and he can see what Hannibal sees like an afterimage in his brain. He sees his own face, very pale, hair too long across his forehead, dark circles under his eyes. He looks like shit.

 _"No, beautiful."_ Hannibal nuzzles the side of Will's neck, nosing the hair behind his ear. Hannibal's fingers catch on the buckle of Will's belt, slipping the leather free and deftly unbuttoning his fly and inching the zipper down. He slides his hand under the fabric of Will's pants, but still over the cotton of his boxers, so he's stroking Will through the thin fabric. The touch send little frissons of pleasure through Will like electricity.

Hannibal toys with him, tracing Will's cock with just the very tips of his fingers, lingering at the head before switching to use the palm of his hand to half-grip Will and stroke him. The varying pressure and pace brings Will to full erection, but isn't enough to send him over. Desire curls in the pit of Will's stomach, and he writhes, just a little impatience. Hannibal's mind brushes through Will's, conveying his own arousal.

_"Good things come to those who wait."_

_"Do those who wait come?"_

Hannibal is amused, but he pinches Will's hip sharply, and he shushes him. Slowly, carefully, with the exactitude he brings to everything, Hannibal tugs down the band of Will's boxers. Will is hard, very hard; his cock rising off his stomach and jerking as Hannibal traces the head with one finger.

_"Hannibal."_

_"I'm here."_ Hannibal shifts lower, so he is curled around Will's side. He takes Will's cock in his hand, his grip firm and confident, and then licks a thin stripe up the underside. The pink of his tongue and his hair veiling his face overwhelms Will, and he closes his eyes tightly. Hannibal's mouth closes on him, hot and wet and overwhelming. They're in a feedback loop, Will's pleasure bleeds into Hannibal and Hannibal's satisfaction and desire surge back through Will.

Their positions don't allow Hannibal full range of motion, but he laves the head of Will's cock with his tongue, creating soft suction with his hollowed cheeks, his hand working the shaft.

Will's hand comes up, curls around the back of Hannibal's neck, twisting through his hair. The touch steadies him, strengthens the connection between them. Hannibal can feel the crescendo as Will approaches climax, intensifies his efforts.

Will gives a breathless cry as he comes, spill himself across his own stomach and into Hannibal's mouth. Hannibal spits into his own hand, rises up on to his knees, tugging his flies open with his other hand. He grasps his own erection, coming a few short strokes later. Hannibal's climax pulses through Will, as his come splashes across Will's belly and ribs. Hannibal collapses, catching him with one arm. He kisses Will, pulls Will's lower lip between his teeth and sucks it. He sweeps a hand up through the mess on Will's stomach, and then grips Will's face with damp fingers. Will turns his face, and takes those fingers in his mouth, the bitter tastes of their combined come on his tongue.

The look on Hannibal's face is akin to wonder, tempered with a fierce edge. After a moment he sinks back down onto the couch, his fingers slipping from Will's mouth. He presses a kiss to the corner of Will's mouth.

In the aftermath of pleasure, Will is sated and drowsy. Hannibal is still in his mind, an unobtrusive, warm presence. Will lets his eyes close, sleep creeping up on him.

"We should retire upstairs," Hannibal says, voice low and amused. "I don't want to have to carry you."

Will tries to move but fails to work up the motivation. "And I should really take a shower."

Hannibal is dismayed. "Perhaps in the morning?" He leans in to press his nose against Will's collarbone. "I like smelling myself on you."

"Of course you do. Is there no end to your depravity?"

Hannibal laughs low at the back of his throat. "I'm afraid not. Come along, darling boy." He rolls over Will, taking his wrists and tugging upward as he stands. Will makes an unhappy noise but allows himself to be led up the stairs.

He falls into the bed, has a moment to be grateful that Hannibal has a truly wonderful mattress, and is asleep a moment later.

\---

Will wakes late, having slept like the dead, still groggy. Will swings his feet over the edge of the bed and sits, scrubbing his eyes with the heels of his palms. The bed room is empty. He reaches for Hannibal, finds him downstairs, busy with breakfast. Hannibal pauses, reaches back for him, in a distracted sort of way, brushing against Will's mind in greeting. Satisfied, Will dresses and pads downstairs in this stocking feet. 

"So ... now what?" Will says. Hannibal pours him a glass of orange juice. It's fresh-squeezed; there's a juicer out on the counter. "Where do we go from here?"

Hannibal looks at him and blinks. "Where would you like to go?"

"Home," Will says, immediately. 

"Then we will go home."

"Can we?"

"I'm sure we can find a suitable reason for our unexplained absence. I'm sure you'll be able to use your powers of persuasion. In fact, Jack and his team will likely conclude that we haven't been missing at all."

"You can't keep me drugged," Will says. 

"It hadn't been my intention. Fourteen hours have passed since your last dose. The drug should be completely clear of your system now."

Will's eyes narrow and he tests his ability. With a giddy rush, he realizes that Hannibal is correct, and the last muddy poison has evaporated from his brain. Hannibal doesn't have his shields up, and when Will slips into his mind it's like stepping out of the shadow and into the bright summer sunshine. After all the lies, this can't be feigned. Hannibal's love for him is cosmic in scope, without bound or limitation. He could seize control now. But he can't bring himself to. 

"You don't want to turn me in."

"No," Will agrees. "The strongest terms I'd use would be that I want to want to turn you in."

Hannibal smiles, and his good humor is contagious; the corners of Will's mouth turn up in response. "That feeling will fade with time."

"Quite quickly, I'm sure."

"And if you want to go home, we shall go home," Hannibal says.

"I … do," Will says. "Though I'm still not sure entirely what my new life will look like."

Hannibal raises his glass of orange in a toast. "Have no doubt it will be wonderful."

Will smiles, with more confidence now. "I'm beginning to think you're right."


End file.
